Aedra and Daedra
by Zoop
Summary: Series of one-shots focusing on the Aedra and Daedra. Or more specifically, those whose lives are affected, directly or indirectly, by the principle deities of Nirn. Need I point out that those most affected are Orsimer? Of course not. I'm Zoop; there's gonna be Orcs. DUH. ;) Rated T for now, but that'll change. Because Orcs. And Daedra.


**The Orc's Wife**

... In which a Bosmer discovers that too much drink and the vows of Mara can change your life forever...

* * *

Tawniel woke with a blinding headache, the sunlight piercing her eyes through closed lids. Groaning, she weakly lifted an arm to cover her face.

While she wasn't surprised to find herself in a bed, she was rather baffled by the quiet. Hadn't she spent the evening in a crowded inn? Maybe it was morning, curse the Eight, but there should still be the sounds of early patrons dragging themselves into the Bee and Barb to break their fast. The barkeep was a grumpy Argonian who barked at her servers constantly; she couldn't imagine Keerava would be quiet out of courtesy to her hung over guests. Particularly after the mess they'd made in their revelry.

Come to think on it, she also couldn't see the Argonian tucking _anyone_ into bed after they passed out on the floor of her bar.

Nausea threatened as Tawny recalled what she'd drunk last evening, and her stomach lurched at how much she could consciously remember. She could do with some bread to soak up the remainder still sloshing inside her. The thought reminded her that a chamber pot was desperately needed.

Steeling herself to what she'd find, or worse _whom_, the Bosmer woman opened her eyes. Squinting against the bright morning light streaming through the windows, she frowned.

The wooden walls were rough-hewn, not smoothly planed as the inn's had been. Hanging on a plaque on the wall opposite the foot of the bed was an axe of a crude design she couldn't place. The blade was pitted and scratched, as though it had seen much use. Tawny was fairly sure the innkeeper wouldn't put something that... well, not exactly _nice_, but easily filched, out where anyone could make off with it. Looking around, she noticed a plain chest of drawers nearby, and a shelf with perhaps a dozen books. They weren't even all together on the same shelf, which they could easily fit on; some were stacked on one shelf, a handful leaning in a group on another. As if the owner wanted it to look like there were more.

It slowly dawned on her drink-befuddled mind that she wasn't in the inn. She wasn't even in Riften proper, or there would've been some kind of market noise beyond the walls. The only sound she could hear was a steady thunk, as of someone chopping wood.

Easing up, she braced herself as the room spun briefly. Tawny rubbed her temple roughly, searching her memory in a growing panic. There was a lot of drink, she recalled. A _lot_ of it. A load of mercenaries, bragging of a dust-up against a dragon. Some Imperials buying rounds and crowing about the latest victory against the Stormcloaks. And in the midst of the revelry, that silly priest of Mara expounding the virtues of the married life...

That last part seemed to scream in her mind like a hawk spotting its prey. There was a temple in Riften to Mara. Tawny could clearly see it in her mind, as if she was afforded a brief moment of clarity amidst the jumbled memories of the night before. She'd stood there, before the altar, before the Divine... And done what? Her eyes widened and she began to shake.

She must have married someone. And she was in his house, in his bed. Who? Who had she wedded and bedded? As if only now reaching into her terrified mind, she patted her body down in a panic, then sagged with relief. She still wore the dress she'd been prancing about in last night. Her smallclothes were still in place. To her relief, her garments smelled like smoke and ale, not sex and male. Unless she'd wedded a woman without realizing it. Somehow, that thought eased her mind a trifle. She could probably talk her way out of it if it was a woman. Women were less... difficult.

Or she could simply run. That was the preferred option. Where ever she'd been deposited, it couldn't be far from Riften, she reasoned. She could run back to the temple and demand... whatever one demanded to undo a stupid mistake. Before the other half of this little mistake proved himself – or herself – difficult.

Would it be as simple as handing back the ring she discovered on her finger? If both rings were needed for an ending, she would get his one way or another.

Nodding determinedly to herself, Tawny carefully swung her legs off the bed and set her bare feet on the floor. So far, so good: the room remained still. Breathing deeply, she slowly stood. Shock and fear appeared to have sobered her completely; even the nausea was held at bay as her escape instincts took over. Tilting her head, she pricked her delicately-pointed ears: her 'husband' was still chopping wood.

Grimacing at the thought, she began to hunt for her shoes. In her search, she realized the house was fairly small; she was in a modest bedroom that took up the entire second floor. Strangely, there was very little in the way of furnishings, and no decorations to speak of. All that was laid out seemed to be put there to serve a purpose: a chair for sitting, a bed for sleeping, a shelf to hold books, a dresser for clothing. As she slowly made her way to the stairs, untangling her mussed hair from her antlers, her brow furrowed. The wooden walls looked to be newly raised, not worn or greyed from age. Even through the lingering fog of ale dulling her senses, she could smell the still-living wood as she passed.

The main floor was one large room as well, with a stone hearth on the wall opposite the front door and a small table with one chair tucked away in a darkened corner. The rest of the room was bare, but for a few barrels and sacks. From the ceiling by the hearth hung a drying rack with bunches of garlic and Elves' Ears. A fire burned in the hearth, and a metal rod shot through the stone supported a cooking pot hung on a hook. Her mouth watered reflexively as the scent of rabbit stew forced its way past her hangover and made salacious promises to her empty stomach.

_Maybe it won't be so bad, if he's a good cook_, she thought, only to frown and admonish herself. She didn't know who he was; none of the faces she recalled from last night leapt to mind as the one who'd stood with her at the altar. There were many men there; he could as easily be a Nord as an Argonian. Neither was a palatable option. Taking a deep breath, Tawny turned her steps toward the front door. If luck was with her, she wouldn't have to speak to him at all.

Her first impression of the man to whom she'd pledged herself in a drunken delirium was that he was awfully big for a Dunmer. But she had to admit that even for a Bosmer, she was small. _Everyone_ looked huge by comparison. She watched with fascination as he placed a split log on a tree stump then hefted and swung his axe in one fluid, graceful arc, splitting the log straight through. He was shirtless in the sun, a sheen of sweat down his back. Wearing homespun breeches that had clearly seen the inside of a horse stable, he cut an impressive – and alarmingly _large_ – figure to her widened eyes. His black hair was pulled back in a tail, revealing his oddly large pointed ears. A bit larger than a Dunmer's, as a matter of fact.

Narrowing her eyes, Tawny peered more closely at his back, shining damply in the sun. His coloring was not so much slate grey as the color of lichen.

_No_, she thought, swallowing hard. _No_. She shook her head in denial and backed up. When she bumped into the door of the man's house, he paused in mid-swing. Sighing as though facing the inevitable, he glanced over his shoulder.

A whimper came out of Tawny's mouth, but no other sound. Her face was a rictus of horror. Clutching at her heart, she exhaled her held breath, but couldn't seem to draw another.

Closing his eyes for a moment, the Orsimer adjusted his grip on the axe. "There's stew in the pot," he growled, then resumed chopping wood.

Tawny couldn't get back into the house fast enough. Leaning against the door, she tried to calm her rapid, panicked breaths. She'd wed an Orsimer. An _Orc_. How could she have done such a thing? Even if she hadn't actually spoken the vows, _she'd gone home_ _with an Orc_! Her parents would be appalled. Granted, most of the things she'd done since leaving home in the dead of night would probably have the same effect, but _this_. Petty thievery and the occasional debauchery could be easily forgiven in light of _this_. She might even avoid being disowned if she'd only murdered someone. But to wed an _Orc_. _An Orc!_

Had he drugged her, beyond what she was determined to manage on her own as pint after pint passed in front of her? Had another been standing with her under Mara's watchful eyes, and was murdered in an alley by this beastly man so he could claim her? Drag her to his home? Have his wicked way with her?

That there was no evidence to support any of her wild conclusions bore no weight as she looked everywhere but the obvious for an answer.

Pushing herself away from the door, she began to pace the floor, wringing her hands and her memory with equal vigor. She knew things would be difficult. He was a man, and on top of that, an _Orsimer_ man. They weren't known for their patience or rationality. Like as not, he'd murder her if she tried to get out of this farcical marriage. Or worse, he'd insist on consummation first.

Shuddering with revulsion, she fought to push that image from her mind. Even at a distance of several yards, she knew the top of her head didn't come close to his heart. He was a massively built beast of a man, and she a lithe, slender woman. Bosmer were the smallest of the _Mer_, Orsimer easily the largest. Envisioning his ferocious attentions and monstrous size nearly raised her gorge beyond her capacity to restrain it.

Coupling with him would hurt. It would hurt _a lot_. Particularly if she didn't cooperate. And of course she woudn't cooperate. How _could_ she?

Suddenly, her ears pricked. Unconsciously listening for it, Tawny realized the steady chopping had stopped. Freezing like a deer stalked by a wolf, her eyes flew to the door. _He's coming_, she thought, and began to tremble. She nearly leaped from her skin when she heard the pounding.

She couldn't move or breathe, and stared at the door as though a terrifying monster lay beyond. The noise paused, then sounded again. When she continued to stare, unmoving, a third round ensued, accompanied by an impatient voice.

"Open the door!"

He sounded furious. Panicking, Tawny cast her gaze around the room, looking for some kind of weapon. Stuck into the wood on the table in the corner was a dagger, and she quickly took it. As the thumping continued, she dragged her reluctant feet across the floor, her breath coming in short gasps. She hid the knife behind her back, and opened the door with a shaking hand. Then she leaped back as it opened wide.

The Orsimer man only met her eyes briefly before striding into the room, his arms laden with freshly-cut logs. Fear of him exaggerated his expression in her mind, and she cringed from him in terror, for he looked ferociously angry with her for keeping him waiting on the stoop of his own house. She flinched repeatedly as each log he unloaded into the crate next to the hearth thudded loudly.

Pressed to the wall with the knife held behind her in a sweating hand, Tawny watched as the Orsimer opened a cabinet on the wall and took out two clay bowls and two metal spoons. He didn't look at her or say anything; he simply ladeled stew into each bowl, then laid one on the little table. Without a word or a glance in her direction, he took his bowl with him out the door.

Tawny stared at the open doorway, unsure what to do. In spite of the light breeze blowing in, the scent of his stew caught and held her attention. A thin curl of steam rose from the bowl, beckoning her to approach. Her stomach informed her that it couldn't recall when she last ate, though Tawny was fairly positive she'd supped last night. Disagreeing in light of the promised fare, her stomach rumbled insistently.

Reasoning that at the very least, she should find out how far the Orc went, Tawny slowly crept across the room, past the open doorway. Hesitating, she peered outside, and saw the Orsimer seated on the stump he'd been splitting logs upon earlier, slowly eating his stew. His back was to the house; she could slip by the doorway unnoticed.

She darted past, then hastily sat at the table. The chair was of simple construction; not in the least bit fancy. Clearly, Orcs considered such things as comfort to be as useless as beauty. The seat was hard and uneven, the armrests rough, the seat too high and too deep for her short legs. Her toes barely brushed the floor.

But the stew was delicious. It was rabbit, as she'd surmised earlier, with carrots and potatoes, leeks and tomatoes. She couldn't place the herbs he'd used, but they enhanced the taste in a way she never would have imagined. _I thought all they could do was pound metal_, she mused as she eagerly spooned up every drop.

Feeling invigorated and emboldened by a full belly, Tawny rose with the brave intent to tell this man that the wedding was a mistake and she was going straight back to Riften – as soon as she figured out in which direction it lay – to set things to rights. Surely he didn't want to be beholden to a Bosmer any more than she wished to be shackled to an Orsimer. The very idea was absurd!

Her courage was quelled as soon as she saw him looming in the doorway, blocking the sunlight and her escape. Though he'd only paused on entering and meeting her on the way out, her lack of trust conjured far more sinister purposes. Only now did she realize she'd laid the knife down on the table in order to eat, and forgotten to reclaim it when she rose.

Though shadowed by the bright sunlight at his back, what she could see of his face was harshly-lined and brutal. Brow bunched thickly and mouth turned down in a scowl, he looked angry. Her eyes were drawn to his tusks, thick and sharp, thrusting upward from his lower jaw. She couldn't look him in the eyes; all she could see were teeth made for tearing living flesh.

Yet he sighed, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. It was an unexpectedly long journey from mouth to eyes, for she feared what she would find there and did not hurry.

"Orekh," he said, startling her.

"Ah... what's that?" she rasped hoarsely, and cleared her throat.

"My name," he supplied. "And you? Your name?"

She blinked with surprise. "Um... Tawniel." She'd assumed he'd had a clearer head last night, but that didn't appear to be the case.

Nodding, Orekh shifted his gaze from hers and glanced around the room. She had the distinct feeling he was avoiding her eyes. "I'll have to... um... build another chair," he muttered awkwardly.

Her own gaze shifted past his bulky frame toward the door and its enticing promise of freedom. "You build things?" she asked distractedly. "The house as well?"

His gruff voice took on a note of pride. "Yes. Bought the land from the Jarl's steward. Been building for a couple of years. Hadn't thought..." Pausing, he glanced down at Tawny. "Didn't know I'd be sharing it... so soon."

Her effort to hide her revulsion at the idea was ineffectual, judging by his flinch as he looked away again. Grimacing, she bowed her head and hugged herself. Gnawing her lower lip, she forced herself to say quietly, "Um... about that..." She licked her lips nervously. She wished she had the courage to protest, claim she was drunk, not in her right mind. Seeing his hand clench into a fist, what modest courage she possessed abandoned her. She dared not look at his face. "You see, I left my gear at the inn," she invented, her voice shaking. "Clothes, weapons, armor... all of it. Everything I own. If I'm... um... If I'll be living here, I really need... I mean, there are some... personal things..."

"Go... go fetch them, then," Orekh said hollowly. "Riften is a few hours' walk east down the road." Stepping around her, he went to sit on the only chair on the first floor. "Road's about fifty yards out the door." Staring at the table and clasping his hands between his knees, he muttered, "I'll... make some bread. For... for dinner." His head bowed. "Sorry I didn't have any this morning."

"Right," Tawny said, edging toward the door. "That'll be nice. Um... see you in... in a few hours, then." Keeping his rigid form in her sights, she backed out of the house until she could no longer see him, then she turned and fled toward the road.

* * *

"What do you mean, what did you do last night?" Conor barked loudly, startled by the question. Tawniel rolled her eyes and motioned for her friend to keep his voice down.

"You want the whole world to hear you, idiot?" she hissed. "You were here; what happened?"

Snorting, he leaned back in his chair. The Bee and Barb was just beginning to pick up with the mid-day crowd. Keerava was scolding a barmaid for breaking a mug. Her partner, Talen-Jei, had accosted a pair of seedy-looking patrons and was demanding they state their business, to which they replied in loud, expletive-laden terms that their business was none of his. In short, it wasn't likely anyone would pay the least amount of attention to anything the two Bosmer had to say.

"I'm not surprised you don't recall," Conor replied smoothly. "I never saw you that you didn't have a pint in one hand and a lucky man in the other." Snickering and shaking his head, he added, "Many an empty pocket was discovered come morning, I've no doubt. Once the memory of your sweet charms wore off, that is."

"Hah," Tawny grumped sourly. "I mean, did I do anything... out of the ordinary?"

"Besides climb upon a table and declare yourself the Jarl of the Common Room?" Conor laughed.

"I didn't!"

"You most assuredly did," he assured her, smirking at her stunned expression. "We restrained you from stripping to your small clothes and dancing upon the bar. 'T'would have been unseemly."

"Stop teasing me," she growled. Of all her friends that should be here the day after such a terrible event, it would have to be Conor. Not Laressa, her closest friend and confidante. Nor Silas, who would do in a pinch if no other sympathetic ear could be found. No, she was saddled with Conor the Liar, Conor Foultongue, Conor the Boorish Lout. She should never have slept with him a year ago; he proved himself utterly undeserving of a place in her circle of friends, yet he was as difficult to rid herself of as a stray cat left a saucer of milk on the stoop out of pity.

"Or perhaps you're wondering how you came to be wedded to an Orc," he suggested slyly, watching her face with gleeful anticipation.

Tawny's eyes nearly fell out of her head, and her mouth worked silently as she sputtered. "H-how... how do you know?"

"Dearest, we _all_ knew," the Bosmer man replied impatiently. "You were in the poor man's lap all evening. I'm not certain what your goal was, since he couldn't possibly have enough pockets to require such _lengthy_ attention."

"You're lying!" she spat furiously. Yet she dug harder into her memory, looking for some evasive flicker that might reveal the truth.

"Of course I am," Conor sighed. "There were some Imperials and mercenaries raising a ruckus over their various heroics. I believe there might have been three Orsimer among them, but to which group each belonged, I couldn't say."

"Please," Tawny breathed, worrying a pain beginning to reform between her eyes, "just tell me the truth. Swear in Y'ffre's name that you speak the truth. _What happened?_"

Deflating as though the Bosmer woman had just stolen every possibility of continued amusement at her expense, Conor sobered inasmuch as he was able. "Very well. The truth is that late last night, after drink had flowed far too freely for any measure of good sense to be had by anyone, that meddling priest from the temple and his enticements won through. You and perhaps a dozen others boisterously announced your intentions, and paraded to the temple, leading many revellers in your wake."

Wincing, Tawny closed her eyes and lowered her face into her hands. "Did none of you think to stop me? Even _once_?"

"Dearest love, how could we?" Conor asked helplessly. "It seemed to be a jolly good idea at the time."

"But... wedding an _Orc_?" she squeaked, fixing him with a desperate look. "What made any of you think...?"

"Had things been... organized, I'm certain someone would have protested," he shrugged. "As it was, each person grabbed a random member of the crowd and stepped forward. That silly priest read off the vows, they were accepted, and the next 'happy couple' stepped up."

"So... did he grab me? Did he pull me forth?" she asked in a hesitant voice, hoping the opposite wasn't true.

Conor gazed off into space, trying to recall. Finally, he shook his head. "I'm not certain. It seemed to be a group decision, I think. The big brute was pushed up to the altar, and then you sort of... fell into it." Seeing her widening eyes, he hastily added, "As though you were pushed from behind." Then he chuckled. "You should have seen it. I dare say, it was the reason you and he were urged to take the vows in the first place."

"What?" she asked, not sure she wanted to hear any more.

"Well, he's a mountain and you are but a tiny little hillock," Conor explained, holding his thumb and forefinger quite close together. Then he burst out laughing. "No doubt, many assumed he would tear you asunder when consummating your union."

"That is not funny!" Tawny shrieked, her voice silencing the bar momentarily. "How could... I thought you were my _friends_! Why did you not stop this horror from...?"

"It was terribly funny at the time!" he protested defensively. As though finally realizing the gravity of the situation, as revealed by the woman's tear-filled eyes and terrified expression, Conor frowned. "You're all right, aren't you?" he asked seriously. "He didn't... touch you, did he?"

"Now you worry? Well after the fact? Not when you might have stopped the entire disaster from happening? Only _now_ do you ask?" she cried. Satisfied that for once, Conor appeared properly ashamed, Tawny calmed. "No. He put me in a bed alone. I've no idea where he slept. He laid no hand upon me; not last night, and not this morning."

"You saw him?" her friend asked, alarmed. "He let you leave?"

"He thinks I've come for my things," she replied sullenly. "I ran from that place as soon as I was able, and I am _not_ going back."

"Very wise," Conor nodded. "I would've done the same in your place."

Furrowing her brow, she felt slightly unsettled by his reassurance.

* * *

The priest of Mara who presided over several unremembered weddings in the small hours of the night appeared at least as out of sorts as Tawniel had upon waking. His eyes were half closed and bloodshot, his hair an unkempt mess. A stained and rumpled robe indicated he'd likely passed out in it and perhaps vomited down the front. Yet he still possessed enough wherewithal to straighten with dignity and respond to the Bosmer woman's desperate plea.

"No, you may not," he said hoarsely. "Two spoke the vows of Mara; two must unspeak them. I can do nothing until your husband stands at your side before the Divine in agreement."

"You don't understand," Tawny insisted shakily. "He's an _Orc_. I barely escaped. Surely Mara wouldn't deny me release from Her vows under the circumstances."

Bowing his head to rub his weary eyes, he shook his head. He'd had no rest, once his own poor judgment was revealed by morning's light – and the absence of six pairs of rings was discovered. His elder in the temple scolded him hotly, using language unheard within a Divine House since the priesthood was formed. _You have thoughtlessly, irresponsibly made this bed,_ the elder priest told him, _now you will lie in it!_

"I am sorry for your predicament, ma'am, but the terms are clear," he sighed. "Fetch him hither, and this entire travesty may be undone. Until he stands with you, my hands are tied." Thinking to lessen her fear, he added, "Two such... surprisingly-wed couples have already visited this morning and unsaid their vows. They have gone their separate ways, considerably wiser."

"I can't," Tawny breathed, slowly shaking her head. "Orc. _Big_. I... I can't go back there. I _can't_."

"Surely your friend here...," the priest offered, gesturing toward Conor.

Tawny scoffed. "Him? He stood idly by, _laughing_. I may be a great fool, but I am not so foolish _twice_."

"My apologies," the priest repeated. "But there is nothing I can do. He must be present as well, or Mara will not hear your entreaty."

Wincing, Tawny turned away. "Thanks for nothing," she muttered, and left the temple.

"So what will you do now?" Conor asked, quickening his step as she began to hasten away.

"Leave," she replied tightly.

"Not back to your husband's house, surely," the Bosmer man said, suppressing a snicker at her annoyed glance.

"No, fool," she snapped. "I am leaving Riften. The Rift itself, if needs be. I'll not be caught unawares by him. I won't be dragged back there. Whether the Orc, the priest, or the Divine Herself agree or not, this marriage is _over_."

"Excellent," Conor chirped happily, rubbing his hands together vigorously. "Shall I gather our friends? I scent adventure on the wind. Shall we go north and see what the High King is up to, what with the Imperials breathing down his neck and dragons landing on his stables at every opportunity?"

"That would be fine," she replied absently, once more made uncomfortable by Conor's support.

* * *

Talk around the campfire was mostly at Tawny's expense, reliving with exaggerated amusement the ludicrous wedding she'd stood for. Conor took extreme pleasure in puffing his slight body up with curved arms and Imga-like bowed legs to mock the hulking Orsimer, while Silas squealed in terror.

As expected, it was Laressa who quieted their mirth, noting how her friend's mood soured as each new amusement was invented. Leaving Silas and Conor to imitate the facial expressions Tawny and the Orsimer must have shared upon noting their size differences that morning, Laressa urged Tawny to sit apart from the laughing men and talk in low voices.

"You look miserable," Laressa observed quietly. "Tell me truly: did the Orc take his due? Did he harm you in any way?"

"No, he didn't," Tawny replied. She sat cross-legged on the ground, worrying a stick in her lap. "He... he never laid a hand on me."

"Good," her friend sighed with relief. "Those two idiots. How they can laugh..." Shaking her head, Laressa growled, "Let one of them be bedded by a Khajiit. A _male_, at that. Wipe the smirks from their faces, it would."

Startled, Tawny narrowed her eyes. Her oldest friend was not one to pass up an opportunity for adventure and new experience. Being braver than most, Laressa's explorations often extended shamelessly into intimate matters. "Have you?" Tawny asked hesitantly. "Been bedded by a Khajiit?"

Laressa shrugged and a slight smile played upon her lips. "Curiosity killed the cat, they say. It was... only a little death." Her smile broadened, and a blush heated her cheeks.

"Is it true, then?" Tawny whispered. Knowing her friend would be more than happy to regale her with the details of her discoveries, she leaned forward eagerly. "About... how they're made?"

"It seems," Laressa said, nodding slightly, "that your old friend rather likes a prickly prick."

Tawniel's eyes widened and she gasped appreciatively with scandalized shock. Then both women burst into uncontrollable giggling for several moments, hands on one another's shoulders for support.

After their mirth had run its course, Tawny sobered and frowned. "Laressa," she said uncertainly, "tell me what happened at the temple last night. I assume you were there."

Her friend nodded. "I was. I am terribly sorry that I did not realize what was truly happening until it was too late. Like everyone else, too much drink..." Shrugging helplessly, she explained, "I had not a clear head."

"Had I done something, _said_ something, to make this Orc choose me?" Tawny begged. "Or was it indeed a joke as Conor said? Others in the crowd pushed us forward? Is that how it happened?"

"I believe so." Chuckling, Laressa added, "For once, Conor speaks the truth. I shall have to write this down."

"And did he... the Orsimer, I mean, did he look... smug or... victorious or... How did he look, wedding me?"

Laressa furrowed her brow in thought. Finally, she answered, "As I recall, he looked drunk. _Quite_ drunk. I don't think he was any more aware of what he was doing than you were."

"Then... there is a chance...," Tawny began, only to shake her head quickly. "No, I can't. I can't face him." Looking helplessly at her friend, she said, "He is easily four times my size." Laressa gave her a disbelieving look. "No, he is! You did not stand next to him! The top of my head does not reach his shoulder. Not by a foot span! And he is at least twice as wide. If he so much as flicked me with one stout finger, I would be sent to Oblivion."

"You exaggerate," Laressa admonished. "Perhaps my memory isn't clear, but Orsimer are not so large as _that_." Her friend's distress did not lessen, so she gathered Tawny in her arms. "There now, hush. We'll see you safely away. You need never lay eyes upon the brute again."

"Thank you," Tawny sniffled, clasping her friend tightly.

* * *

Bedding down in their camp that night brought unexpected memories to Tawniel's worried mind. For the first time in her days on the road, seeking adventure behind every tree or down every mineshaft, she could not find a comfortable lie. Shifting position several times, there always seemed to be a root in just the wrong place, or her bedroll could not be smoothed properly, or an owl hooted at just the wrong time, or her blanket had an odd smell she didn't quite like. She tossed and turned constantly, earning a grumbling rebuke from Silas in the bedroll next to hers.

Then to add to her misery, a crack of thunder announced an oncoming storm.

Now all four Bosmer were awake and breaking up camp so they could seek shelter as quickly as possible. As Tawny tied up her bedroll and secured it to her pack, a vivid recollection of the Orsimer's bed came to her. For a moment, she was back in his house, recalling things that hadn't been obvious at the time: the scents of fresh straw and newly-cut oak, a warm patchwork blanket with uneven stitches, a soft goosedown pillow, the open window letting in a cool morning breeze, the twitter of birds and the steady thunk of an axe...

"Tawniel!"

Startled from her reverie, the Bosmer's eyes darted about. Laressa was giving her the oddest look. "What ever is the matter with you?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," Tawny replied. "My mind wandered." Frowning, she looked down to see her fingers fretfully twisting the ring about her finger. Closing both fists, she put her hands behind her back. "I'm all right."

"You're quite sure?" Laressa asked skeptically.

Tawny nodded firmly. "Quite sure."

* * *

Two days' journey brought the foursome within sight of Windhelm, but that was as far as they were likely to get.

"Well, damn," Silas muttered, peering under his hand as he shaded his eyes from the sun. "City's under siege."

"Are you certain?" Laressa cried in alarm, and looked for herself.

"Far as I can tell," the young man confirmed. "More steel than homespun wandering about, that's certain. I suppose the Jarl still doesn't see eye-to-eye with the Empire, eh?"

"What do we do now?" Tawny asked worriedly. Glancing nervously back down the road, her eyes searched for any signs of pursuit.

"Hole up in Kynesgrove for the night," Conor suggested. "Last time I was there, the innkeeper had rosey cheeks and a sunny smile." Grinning, he waggled his eyebrows. Silas chuckled.

"She also had a heavy hand with a skillet," Silas reminded him. "_And_ a husband who lacked a sense of humor."

"Pssh," Conor replied dismissively. "I'm sure he's forgotten all about it."

"If he has, I'll be sure to jog his memory for you," Laressa smirked, patting Conor's shoulder. "Especially if you flirt with his wife."

"Don't, please," Tawny pleaded, her brow creased with agitation. "I would rather have a roof over my head and walls about me this close to Ri-... the steam pools. If you get us thrown out, we'll have to contend with... with giants and necromancers and who knows what all else."

Silas gave her a surprised look. "Since when have either of those things turned you away from anything, Tawny?"

Laressa sidled up to her friend and put an arm around her shoulders. "She's out of sorts. Being newly wed has that affect." She had to purse her lips to hide the teasing smile.

"Oh, be serious!" Tawny snapped, pushing her friend away. "I haven't slept well in days; I want a proper bed. I don't believe that's too much to ask." Rounding on Conor, she hissed, "Keep your hands to yourself and your mouth shut. Can you manage that?"

"If her high and mightyness wishes it, then it will be so," Conor replied grandly, dipping low in a bow. Tawny rolled her eyes and stomped toward the inn.

* * *

Braidwood Inn at Kynesgrove was mostly peopled with Imperial army officers taking their meals. This close to Windhelm, the owners Iddra and Kjeld were loyal Stormcloaks, but loathe to confess their allegiance with so many armed soldiers about. The Bosmeri travellers found the atmosphere tense and businesslike; even if the innkeeper recalled Conor or his ham-fisted attempts at seduction a few years before, neither she nor her husband wanted to draw the attention of the Imperials, and so served their guests in relative silence.

"Are you sure you want a bed here?" Silas asked Tawny in an undertone, only to meet her distracted silence once more. The woman was staring at her bowl of cabbage soup and twisting the ring on her finger. "Something wrong with the food, Tawny?"

Jumping a bit, she darted a surprised look at her friend. "I... what? I'm sorry. My thoughts were elsewhere."

Frowning, he looked at the ring she was still unconsciously spinning about her slender finger. The skin was beginning to redden.

"Is that your wedding ring?" he asked.

As she'd done before, Tawny hastily stopped and hid her hands. "No. I mean yes. It's the wedding ring. Mine. Yes."

"You drifted off," Laressa said soothingly, as though her friend had been startled from a nightmare. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Tawny nodded. "I'm fine. Never better." She offered a wan smile, hoping they'd stop pressing. It was the most ludicrous thing, lamenting that the soup didn't compare to the Orsimer's stew she'd savored before. Leaning over her bowl, she scooped up several spoonfuls with pretended gusto, just to show them she didn't recall the Orsimer's superior cooking at all, nor did the fleeting wonder of how his bread might have tasted pass through her thoughts.

Which made her pause, and stare at the stale loaf on their table. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to tear off a piece.

"You're doing it again," Laressa observed.

"Doing what?"

"The ring," her friend replied, nodding her chin toward Tawny's hands.

Looking down, she found she was twisting the ring once more.

* * *

Windhelm being a poor choice under the circumstances, the Bosmer struck out for Whiterun. Tawny was grateful; mere distance didn't seem to be keeping the Orsimer away. Perhaps a great mountain range standing between her and that monstrous mistake would help her relax.

"Things should be calmer in Whiterun," Silas reasoned as they trekked westward. "If the Empire has reached Windhelm, they're likely already done there."

"So you've been paying attention, have you?" Laressa replied with amusement. "Weren't you the one who said, 'it isn't our land, so it isn't our fight'?"

"You're mistaking me with Conor," he replied haughtily, grabbing his friend by the scruff and hauling him closer. The two Bosmer men struggled to affect serious expressions. "Do we look so much alike that you can't tell us apart?"

"Horns," Conor reminded her, pointing at the nubs poking from his forehead.

"Whatever is keeping them from sprouting, I wonder?" Tawniel observed teasingly as she idly stroked one of her own. Her antlers swept back from her forehead and were at least a foot in length now. She'd taken great care to keep them from growing too large, otherwise they might be longer.

"I've heard if you're an insufferable prick, they get stunted and won't grow," Laressa offered semi-seriously.

"You'd know about pricks, wouldn't you?" Conor retorted with an impish grin. "Mrowr."

"Jealous," she sniffed loftily.

Tawniel chuckled to herself as their banter continued. Though her ring finger was painfully irritated, she believed she'd managed to go almost a week without fretting about her mistake catching up to her. Though their progress was slowed by almost continuous detours from the main road as troop after troop made its way to Windhelm, they were at last within sight of Dragonsreach, pale yet formidable in the distance. Surely in Whiterun, she might find relief. There was supposed to be a Temple of some sort there. Perhaps those priests would be more helpful.

Their camp that night was off the road a fair distance, for not only troops but camp followers of sometimes dubious intentions choked the main road day and night. Avoiding confrontations came naturally to Bosmer, and they melted into the shadows without a sound. To ensure they would sleep undisturbed, they didn't light a fire most nights, relying on cold rations and close huddling for warmth.

"I probably shouldn't be lying so close to a married woman," Conor chuckled quietly. In spite of his words, he didn't seem particularly deterred from slipping his hands under the blanket to stroke Tawniel's flank. "But the forbidden has always enticed me."

An elbow to the ribs urged his retreat. "Don't touch me," she hissed. The barely suppressed giggles of their friends accompanied Tawny's rejection.

Undaunted, Conor edged closer to whisper in her ear. "Faithful little wife, aren't you? Twist that ring some more, love. I know you can't... get him... out... of your mind," he breathed, kissing her neck and ear between words. His hand slid around to cup her breast, and Tawniel considered... but only for a moment. It wasn't because she belonged to another, she told herself firmly. She knew what he was doing: urging her denial of his words. Swear she didn't often think of the Orsimer, and worry about where he was, what he was doing, whether he was angry. Forget that she had spoken a vow, though she had no memory of doing so. A vow from which only the Divine Mara could release her.

No, she wouldn't bed Conor because he was an insufferable bastard. That was the _only_ reason.

"Take your hands, _and_ your mouth_, _off me," she growled over her shoulder. Grabbing his wrist, she forcefully pushed his arm away. "I'd sooner bed a mudcrab."

"Suit yourself," he shrugged. "Your naming day is coming soon, isn't it? Do you prefer the mudcrabs off the northern coast, or should I import from Valenwood? A little taste of home, as it were?"

"Throw yourself from a cliff," she grumbled under her breath, and curled up in a ball. With her hands tucked protectively against her chest, no one could see her twisting the ring again.

* * *

The streets of Whiterun boasted a stronger Imperial presence than usual as the four Bosmer passed through the gates amidst a stream of peddlers and farmers. With an end to the war so close, no chances were being taken; each visitor was carefully searched for any evidence that they may be secretly supporting the failing Stormcloaks.

Tawny stood impatiently through the inspection, weary of the long line and anxious to join her friends at the Bannered Mare. They hadn't been there in almost a year; was the Honningbrew family still making the best mead in the hold? From the looks of the land, Whiterun hadn't suffered very much from the turning tide. The surrounding farmlands were still intact.

"Mind your hands, lad," Silas warned the soldier patting down Tawniel when her turn came. "That's a married woman you're fondling." Winking and snickering, he nudged Conor and shared another laugh at Tawny's sour look.

"Your pardon, madam," the young Imperial muttered. He hastily finished and waved her on.

"You both deserve a berth on the next caravan to Oblivion," she hissed. "I long for the day when this joke ceases to amuse you."

The Bosmer men looked at one another and shrugged. "That day will never come, dear heart," Conor said in mock sympathy. "One marries for life, you know. That's a long time to enjoy a jolly good laugh."

Stunned by the truth of his words, as though they'd only now occurred to her, Tawny stumbled blindly in her friends' wake as they made their way along the dirt path between half-timbered homes toward the tavern. _For life_, he'd said. The stretch of years before her – a lifetime shackled to a man she couldn't face – almost halted her in her tracks. Her breath quickened in a panic, and she pressed hand to heart, urging the thumping to slow.

The possibility that her 'husband' would tire of her absence and hunt her down terrified her. He would likely abuse her for running in the first place. It would be no hardship; he was so much larger, even a gentle pat could knock her down.

"I must see the priest," Tawny told her friends suddenly, just as they were mounting the steps to enter the Bannered Mare. "Go ahead without me; I'll catch up later."

"Do you need me to go with you?" Laressa offered, her brow furrowed with concern.

Chewing her lip with indecision, Tawny fretted nervously. She couldn't remember where the temple was, nor which Divine was worshipped there. And she realized she couldn't face another denial of help alone.

"Yes, please," she finally said, and Laressa joined her. Once out of earshot of the men, her friend leaned close and whispered in her ear.

"We've been terrible, haven't we?" Laressa confessed with some embarrassment. "You've not laughed for days and days."

"I see no humor in it," Tawny replied anxiously. "What if... what if he's chasing me?" She darted a hunted look at her friend. "He could be, you know. I've looked, every day. Though I've seen no signs, that may mean nothing."

Worried now, Laressa said quietly, "You've feared him all this time? I had no idea. I admit, I'd noticed your nervousness, but I didn't fully realize..."

"The sooner I'm quit of this marriage and rid of _him_, the better," the Bosmer woman insisted. "Now where is that blasted Temple? I don't even care whose it is."

Their feet, and inquiries of the locals, brought the Bosmer women to the Temple of Kynareth. Its bright interior was serene and calm, the windows around the upper gallery letting in the sunlight. Pillars supporting the roof were strung with well-tended ivy. As the Bosmer stood in awe of the large, open structure, an elderly woman in priest's robes approached them and smiled kindly.

"Kynareth bless you with good fortune," she said, bowing. "How may I serve?"

Tawny opened her mouth to speak and found no words, as though her breath had been caught. Glancing desperately at her friend, she pleaded with her eyes. Laressa needed no further urging and clasped her friend's hand reassuringly.

"Ma'am, my friend has made a terrible mistake," Laressa began, and described Tawny's plight. The old woman nodded gravely as the details of that embarrassingly irresponsible night were described, and Tawniel found herself spinning the ring about her finger once more. The skin there was chapped and had begun to crack, yet she could not bring herself to remove the ring.

"So you see," Laressa concluded, "my friend can't possibly return to Riften and seek annulment. That horrid brute of an Orc would likely imprison her if she sought his cooperation. You know how they are."

The priest nodded understanding. Motioning to them, she turned toward a bench between two of the pillars. Few supplicants were present at this time of day; those who communed with Kynareth were deep in their meditations and so paid the Bosmer women no mind. "Come, sit. You must be tired from a long journey." Laughing lightly as she made herself comfortable, she added, "Or indulge an old woman's need to rest her weary bones."

Tawny and Laressa readily agreed, and sat with the priest. They watched anxiously as she smoothed her robes, taking her time, choosing her words.

"Allow me to guess your desire," she finally said, gazing at Tawniel. "You wish me to appeal to Kynareth on your behalf, and urge Her to ease Mara's will in this matter. Allow you to unspeak the Divine's vow without the presence of the one to whom you spoke it."

Exhaling with great relief, Tawny nodded. "Yes. That is exactly what I..."

"This I will not do," the priest interrupted firmly.

"What?" the Bosmer blinked, startled.

"You ask for a way out of a mistake you made," the elderly Nord replied. "An easy way. A child's way."

"I beg your pardon?" Laressa interjected hotly. The old woman flashed a look at the Bosmer that stilled her tongue and caused her to retreat, fully chastised.

"Your friend said you woke in the Orc's bed," the priest observed. "Is this so?"

"Yes, but... there was no consummation," Tawny insisted, assuming this was the bone of contention. "He laid no hand upon me. So you see... there is no reason why this... this farce should go on."

"You woke in his bed, invented some excuse for leaving, and ran," she went on, frown deepening with each word. "You told him you were departing, and he let you go. Think you that he had no notion as to your intent? That if he wished to hold you, he would have fallen for such an obvious falsehood?"

Tawny almost blurted that of course, he was fooled, else she would still be in his clutches. Except... she knew that wasn't true. She couldn't recall the details of their parting, but he'd seemed... indifferent. Accepting, even.

"An Orsimer is not a fool, though he appears a beast," the priest said, as though reading Tawny's thoughts. "He would have seen through your lies. Were it within his nature to claim you, he would have done so. Were it his desire to keep you, no words you spoke would have let you out of his sight." Leaning back and resting her hands on her knees, the priest concluded, "I suspect you will find no argument from him in unspeaking Mara's vow. As much as Men and Mer despise union with Orcs, so do they also despise such union. We are weak and honorless in their eyes." Gazing shrewdly at Tawny, she leveled a boney finger at the Bosmer. "You prove such assessments by running from him."

Closing her eyes and bowing her head in shame, Tawny realized this was true. The raw flesh of her ring finger stood out accusingly around the golden band.

"Go to him," the priest said, her voice kinder. She laid a hand on Tawny's arm. "Speak your peace. End it, if that is your will. But do not run anymore. You solve nothing by running."

Tawny silently nodded. Drawing a shuddering breath, she looked at her friend. "Tell the boys... I've gone back to Riften."

Frowning, Laressa said, "Alone? You don't want us to come with you?"

"No," Tawny said, shaking her head. "This is my mistake. I will... attend to it."

"Travel with merchants or secure a place on the coach line," the priest advised. "War still rages, and dragons still fly. You do not want to be caught alone on the road."

"I will," she replied. "Thank you. You've helped. More than you know."

"Many truths are painful to hear," the old woman said with a slight smile. "Nearly as painful to speak. May Kynareth's spirits guard you, and good fortune speed you on your journey."

* * *

The coach was little more than an open wagon with a single driver and plodding draft horse. Accompanying Tawniel on her journey back east were a Khajiit in a brown robe, his clawed hands tucked into the sleeves and his eyes closed as though he slept, and a young Nord couple who often spoke in flirtatious whispers. Tawny gathered from snatches of their conversation that they were newly wed and travelling to Shor's Stone to begin their new life together.

As the wagon's wheels rattled and crunched on the uneven road, Tawny stared at the land rolling past at a snail's pace. The driver told her their route would take them through Helgen, a sight to see as it was the first town destroyed by the first dragon. The Empire was rebuilding the town as a place for the families of those soldiers manning Fort Neugrad, overlooking the mountain pass.

By the time the wagon pulled up to the Sleeping Giant in Riverwood, Tawny had learned more than she ever wanted to know about the dragon threat, the Dragonborn, which towns were flattened, how long it took for the Dragonborn to do her duty and defeat Alduin... She found herself scrambling free of her blanket in the back of the wagon, so anxious was she to escape the coachman's nasal voice and endless banter.

The happy couple were almost as annoying, she found. With each passing hour, she grew more uncomfortable in their presence. It wasn't so much that they were displaying more affection than was strictly polite in mixed company. Once absorbed in her quiet, solitary meal in the corner, away from the other passengers and the barely tolerable driver, she realized the couple bothered her simply because, being both Nords, they were well-suited to one another.

And they seemed happy. As though all their cares and worries were no longer a burden so long as their love was strong. Tawny hadn't given the notion of marriage any thought, not since leaving her home to see the world. That wasn't entirely the reason why she left, she finally admitted to herself.

Her parents were always bringing around potential suitors, eager for their daughter to marry well. Her family was not royalty or even nobility, but that did not deter her parents from seeking out a wealthy husband for Tawniel. The old priest was right: she'd been running for years.

She could have said no, she conceded as she idly stirred the bland soup she'd purchased for far more than it was worth. Had she possessed the courage, she might have told them she wasn't ready to be someone's wife. Instead, she snuck away in the night. She joined her friends and told them she had her parents' blessing to strike out on her own and see what lay beyond the borders of Valenwood. It was a lie they still believed.

Retiring to her room, Tawny felt a bit queasy, but couldn't seem to convince herself that it was the greasy meal. She forced herself to envision the young couple, only with herself and the Orsimer in their place. The image of the Orc holding her close as the Nord man held his wife repelled her as much as it frightened her. She just could not bear the thought of seeing such a repulsive-looking face each day for the remainder of her life, or worse, allowing such a beast to touch her.

Yet the young couple seemed to awaken feelings within her that she'd long ignored. She hesitantly admitted that, were a good man to come along, she would welcome him as husband. But in order for such a comfort to be hers, she must be free to accept him when he appeared.

_I must do it_, she resolved firmly. _I must unspeak the vow, at whatever cost_.

* * *

The days stretched into a week as the coach rumbled through the mountain pass, and Tawny grew more anxious the closer they came to Riften. It did not ease her anxiety, knowing she needn't go so far as the city; the Orsimer's property was on their way.

"You'll be seeing your man soon, then?" the Nord woman said unexpectedly, startling Tawny from her distraction.

"I'm sorry, what?" she asked. The woman nodded toward Tawny, in particular at her hands.

"Forgive me, but you have not stopped worrying your ring since you joined us in Whiterun," she said with a knowing smile. "You must have been long apart to fret so."

Tawny didn't know what to say for several moments. They'd told her their names early on, but she couldn't recall them to save her life now. Nor could she think of the Khajiit's name; he'd seemed content to nap in the sunlight for most of the journey, saying nothing to anyone.

"Yes," she finally said cautiously, "it has been... awhile."

The woman beamed with understanding. "No doubt you miss him, as I would my Ulfgar were he parted from me longer than a night." She gazed up at her husband with a soft smile, which he returned along with an affectionate squeeze.

Tawny looked away, a hollow feeling in her chest. Did she only long for such companionship because she'd endured its example for a week without respite? Was she now, after several years of roaming, ready to be a wife?

_Not yet_, she insisted. Give up her hard-won freedom? Never allowed a moment to call her own? To act the servant to a lazy man, cooking his meals, cleaning his home, tending his garden? Committing herself to serving his pleasures alone? Bearing brat after brat whilst he samples the mead at the tavern every night, boasting of his prowess getting so many children that his goodly wife was empty and lifeless as a husk?

And likely accepting invitations of younger, more lively wenches whose lodgings are just around the corner...

"Goodness me, you're bleeding!"

Startled from her thoughts as though from a nightmare, Tawny nearly fell over. The Nord woman was at her side, reaching for the Bosmer's hand, while her husband leaned forward with concern.

"Just let me heal you, dear," the Nord murmured, holding Tawny's hand between her palms. A warm, soothing sensation enveloped the Bosmer's hand, and her tension eased. "There now. You've scraped your finger terribly. I do hope you see him soon. A good husband is such a comfort." Reaching up to briefly touch Tawny's cheek in sympathy, she offered a wan smile. "I've no doubt he shall sweep you off your feet, so pleased will he be to see you again."

Tawny could feel her face twitching as she struggled not to look appalled. Forcing a smile of her own, which must surely have appeared ghoulish under the circumstances, she nodded. "I... I look forward to it." The Khajiit's ear twitched, but he said nothing.

"Is he a good man?" Ulfgar asked seriously. He seemed to be less blinded by love's bliss than his wife, and frowned at Tawny's apparent reluctance to gush about her 'husband.'

She hesitated for a moment, then said with as much certainty as she could muster, "Of course he is, else I wouldn't have married him."

"It does not matter to M'aiq," the Khajiit suddenly said in a sleepy voice, "how strong or smart one is. It only matters what one does with these things."

Struck speechless, Tawny could only stare at the cat-man. The statement seemed random, unrelated to the topic, yet because of his utter silence up to this point, the Bosmer listened. Was he giving advice? She couldn't fathom what about. M'aiq never opened his eyes, and said nothing else.

The Nord did not seem convinced by her attempt to divert his suspicions, nor did he seem to make particular note of what the Khajiit said. "We go on to Shor's Stone, north of Riften," he told Tawny pointedly, his intense gaze locked upon hers. "Should you need friends."

"Oh yes, indeed!" his wife cried. "Do come visit. I would love to meet your husband. Only give me a few weeks to set things to rights." Glancing at Ulfgar with amusement, she added, "I've such a task ahead of me, undoing what long bachelorhood has wrought upon his home." Ulfgar ducked his head, grinning sheepishly.

"Built with my own hands, Miri," he muttered. "It has served me well enough."

"Yes, and it is quite comfortable in its way," she replied indulgently, patting his knee. "A few touches here and there, that's all. Flowers, perhaps? It is my home as well now."

"Of course, my love," he smiled. Though he sighed with undeniable resignation, he also gazed at Miri as though the sun shone only because she had swept into his life. Before, there had been only shadows.

Tawny's heart clenched. Would she never see such a look cast upon her? Not by an Orsimer, she was sure. Only by freeing herself of that... that man, could she hope to see it.

* * *

The wagon continued on toward Riften, and Tawniel watched as it grew smaller in the distance. She'd gone as far as she could go; there was no turning back now. The Orsimer's home was only a short walk through the trees and beyond a rocky outcropping. Grateful as she was that she couldn't see it from this distance, there was every chance the Orsimer was watching the road from some hiding place nearby, if he was not still haunting her footsteps somewhere else along the route she'd taken.

Clinging to the hope that he was, indeed, absent on such an errand, the Bosmer woman slowly picked her way along the trail. _He will punish me for leaving_, she told herself anxiously. Wrapping her arms protectively about her body, she tried in vain to contain her fear. She trembled so, her footsteps were graceless and loud to her ears. _Please, Mara_, she pleaded, _gentle his hand and sooth his rage, if only for one day._

The better favor to ask would be his absence, but she knew nothing would be resolved if such a wish were granted. She had come to call an end, after all. Further delays would only spend what little courage she'd mustered, and make it harder for her to try again.

As she neared the cottage, a strange sound came to her ears, and she halted. Her courage failed her suddenly, and she dropped to a crouch in the shadows. Biting back tears, Tawny crept along the path in silence, and peered past a tree into the clearing where the Orsimer's home stood.

He was there, bent over a workbench, shirtless as he had been the last time she saw him. His movements were measured and repetitive; she couldn't grasp what he was working on for several moments. Then it came to her: he was planing wood. She saw the instrument in his hands, and the wood shavings curled on the ground about his feet. Thick arms pushed the blade across a wooden board, smoothing its imperfections and preparing it for use.

Sweat beaded on his greenish skin, showing he'd been hard at work in the sun for long hours. By his intense focus on the task, Tawny could not imagine that he'd ever left this place and given chase. He had the look of a man with too much work to do to waste his time suffering fools.

Though seeing him in person once more eased some of her worries, for he did not seem as monstrous as her panicked thoughts conjured as memories, his size was no exaggerated recollection. There was great power in every limb of this Orc. Just as he must command terrific strength, so must he also possess violent lust. She shuddered and nearly wept.

She was his wife, by mundane as well as Divine Law. He had every right to do as he pleased with her. For denying him, forcing him to wait for so long to seal their union, he would undoubtedly believe himself justified in taking her in a brutal fashion. She could not imagine an Orsimer being capable of anything else.

_No, I can't_, she thought, shaking her head vigorously. Retreating into the shadows, she gasped for breath as quietly as she could. This would not end if she did not face it, she reminded herself. Perhaps he would take his just due the moment she approached; she must prepare herself for that. He might also simply beat her for her insolence. Beat her and then assault her.

Whimpering and nearly hysterical, Tawny fled deeper into the forest surrounding the Orsimer's lair. She could not face him until she'd had another night to gather her strength. Prepare herself. Convince her frantic mind and weak will that this was the only way. Yet she sat next to a spare campfire, weeping and hugging her knees and trying not to see the looming form of an Orc leering down at her as he took what was his.

* * *

After a sleepless night, Tawniel made her agonizingly slow way back down the path, determined to follow through no matter the consequences. But when she reached the edge of the clearing, she ducked into hiding, for the Orsimer was not alone.

"Hand me the saw, Herd," he grunted. She couldn't see what he was about, but he was bent over something on his workbench. A tall Nord man dug in a crate, eventually coming up with the requested tool.

"Careful there," Herd advised, leaning over the Orc's shoulder. "Take too much off, and it'll wobble."

"Just a bit needs to go," Orekh replied in a low voice as he began to saw.

They were too engrossed in their project to notice Tawny, for which she was grateful. While tempted to retreat, she forced herself to stay. _I must do this_, she scolded herself. Perhaps with another person present, he would be less... unpleasant, she reasoned. Yet she hunkered down in the shadows, out of sight but close enough to hear all that was said and see most of what was transpiring. She told herself that she merely awaited a good moment to appear, not that she was purposefully eavesdropping to learn something about this man who was her husband.

"That's not bad," Herd commented approvingly, and patted his friend's shoulder. "We'll make a carpenter of you yet, Orekh." The Orsimer grunted with amusement.

"My father made a carpenter of me," Orekh replied, and turned. Tawny was shocked to see a relaxed smile on the Orc's face. "It was my mother who taught me the sword."

"I thought that might be it," his friend grinned. "You fight like an Orsimer woman." At Orekh's raised eyebrow, he added with a chuckle, "Bravely and viciously. As though your own blood is threatened."

Orekh nodded, his smile broadening a little. "So do all Orsimer fight. Why do you think the Empire has always recruited from our ranks, eh?"

"Yet you did not heed their call this time," Herd observed, and Orekh's smile faded. The Orsimer went back to adjusting the fit of the wooden pieces on his workbench.

"I could not choose sides," he confessed quietly, and Tawny strained to hear. "I served the Emperor in my time, but that time is done. I live in Skyrim, but to take up arms on her behalf would go against my oath to the Empire."

"You did your part," Herd told him firmly. "Let none condemn you for desiring a quiet life."

The Orsimer laughed. "They will see I have not been idle so long that I've forgotten how to fight." Glancing at his friend with a strangely mischievous grin, he said, "No one bests an Orc."

"Nor do they insult one, if they know what's good for them," Herd chuckled. "So it was not that cursed Yamarz who fathered you, eh?"

Rolling his eyes and grimacing, Orekh replied, "No. I was born in Anvil. I sought out a stronghold after I left the Legion." Scowling, he added, "I endured more years under Yamarz's worthless thumb than any Orsimer should."

"I only met him once." Herd shook his head and sighed. "A more unpleasant person I've not met."

"Indeed," the Orsimer agreed. "And no longer my concern." Reaching for a small box, he removed a few nails and resumed.

The men continued to work in silence for several minutes, and eventually Tawny was able to discern what they were building: it was a nightstand. A small chest with one drawer, intended to be set beside a bed. The longer she watched them, and the Orc in particular, the deeper she frowned. There was, as she'd noted the previous day, nothing monstrous about the Orsimer. Nothing... frightening. Even his boasting seemed to be for the sake of humor rather than to threaten. And when he smiled, his face changed. It did not seem quite so... unpleasant as she recalled.

"Did you do this?" Herd asked, and Tawny's ears pricked. Craning her neck, she tried to see what he was pointing at, but they were too far away.

"Aye," the Orsimer nodded, his cheeks darkening a bit. Tawny blinked. Was he blushing?

"It's rather good," the Nord said. "And quite... interesting."

"Hmph," Orekh grunted. "I have no skill in such things. It was only... fancy."

Herd paused for a moment and faced his friend. "You can't think she'll return, surely."

A lead weight seemed to land in Tawny's stomach. _He means me_, she realized with certainty. Her eyes flicked to the Orc. What would he say? What did he think? He didn't answer for a moment, seeming to be preoccupied with the hammer held in his hands.

"No," he finally replied, his voice a deep, bitter growl. "I am not such a fool."

"Yet you build furnishings for her comfort," the bemused Nord said quietly, "knowing she will never see them, or use them."

Orekh sighed and leaned against the workbench, crossing his burly arms over his chest. "It is my duty. I swore an oath to be a good husband, and I will do that."

"I have spoken with the priests at the temple," Herd said. "Should this... woman return, all you need do is bring her before the shrine of Mara and unspeak the vows. Then it will be as though this marriage had never happened. You will be free of your oath, and may seek a proper wife if you choose."

Orekh curled his lip with disdain. "Mara may reward her followers for their faithlessness, but Malacath does not. I swore an oath, and I will honor it."

"You were drunk," Herd pointed out. "Such a vow cannot possibly be binding." The Orsimer shot his friend a hard look.

"I swore an oath," Orekh repeated harshly. "It does not matter if I was in my right mind. Malacath accepts no excuse; neither do I."

"But... you swore an oath to Mara, not Malacath," the Nord insisted. If possible, Orekh's face darkened more.

"I swore nothing to Mara," he growled. "I swore my oath to Tawniel, and I will honor it until my death." Looking away, he muttered, "Even if she does not."

Herd huffed with frustration. Tawny wanted to protest, tell them she was not so lacking in honor as they implied. But she couldn't speak or move.

"She ran off," the Nord reminded his friend. "She will not be coming back. You toil for no purpose."

"That is no matter," Orekh replied. "I will keep faith to my sworn oath. And to... my wife." Closing his eyes, he turned his head away. Even from her vantage point, Tawny could see his jaw grinding as he mastered himself. "I will lay with no other woman, and take no other wife. I will keep... keep faith."

"As I recall, my friend," Herd said delicately, "you left Largashbur two years ago so you could take a wife."

Orekh was silent for some time, deliberately not meeting his friend's gaze. Taking a deep breath as though to steel himself, he said grimly, "So I have."

Herd seemed to have longed for this moment to speak his mind, and growled, "She is a poor excuse for a wife, my friend."

Now Orekh looked up and glowered at the Nord. "I must warn you, I will defend my wife's honor. Do not say such things of her."

Herd straightened to his full height, planting his feet defiantly apart and resting his hands on his waist. "Your wife _has_ no honor, else she would be here now, at your side. She would face this as you do."

Seething, Orekh stood eye-to-eye before his friend, his lips curled about his sharp tusks. "You go too far."

"Do I?" Herd replied, a challenge in his voice. "She ran like a coward. She is not worthy of you."

The Orsimer seemed to deflate where he stood. To her dismay, he winced, endeavoring to hide his pained expression from the Nord. Orekh was conceding the point, accepting his friend's statement as truth. Tawny had never felt so small.

"Nevertheless, she is... my wife," Orekh said with difficulty, "and you will not... speak of her... with such words."

Several silent minutes passed between the motionless men, and Tawny struggled not to weep. How could she face him now, knowing that he thought of her as weak and honorless, just as the priestess said he would? Yet how could she let him continue to believe so?

"I see," Herd finally said with a short nod. "Let us finish this work, then. For your wife."

Orekh drew a deep breath. "Thank you, my friend."

Unable to muster the courage to face both men's disdain at once, Tawny slipped away while they continued to work.

* * *

Well past nightfall, beneath a moonless sky, Tawniel wept. She'd never heard such harsh words spoken of her, nor had she ever been accused of cowardice. At least, not to her face. Were their words true? Did all those who knew her think the same?

Herd and Orekh need not have openly declared her childish and petty for her to hear it in their tones and choice of words. She'd done what she always did, and run from something uncomfortable and distasteful. No alternative course truly presented itself; had she the choice, she would have left that long ago morning without being seen or spoken to at all. Only her own curiosity, her desire to know whom she'd married, made her hesitate long enough to be discovered.

Avoiding confrontations, she now realized, only spared her an accounting of her deeds when she was a child and the wrongs she'd committed were of little consequence. Now she was a woman grown; the time of avoiding the unpleasant was past.

She'd invented falsehoods about the Orsimer to excuse herself from facing him, she admitted. Seeing him now, hearing his unguarded words, there seemed to be no evidence supporting any of the accusations she'd made. He saw to his own needs, and had for some time. He'd built his own home and every scrap of furnishing within it.

What's more, he'd accepted the mistake of that night weeks ago. Though he seemed no happier with the arrangement than she was, he faced it bravely. He'd opened the door to accept her into his life, in spite of how their marriage was begun, and she'd lied to cover her escape through that very same door.

Tawniel's tears seemed never ending, as their words replayed in her mind over and over. Having her shortcomings laid out so bluntly left her feeling lower than a skeever. She couldn't bear leaving such a legacy; she could not accept it. Even if the Orsimer demanded consummation of their marriage without further insulting delay, even if he punished her for defying the vows she spoke, she could not run another step.

By the coming of dawn, she'd come to the conclusion that it was time to grow up and face her mistake. Knowing now that the Orc would not submit to an annulment, she realized there was only one way to resolve the situation.

Live with her mistake, as he was doing.

Steeling her nerve to confront her husband was not easily managed. She paced about her small camp in a fretful stew for some while. Her long history of cowardice in the face of unpleasantness reared its ugly head many times, weakening her resolve. Yet by mid-day, her pride won out, and she followed the game trail to his house.

She'd feared his friend would be there again, but Orekh was alone. Most of the work on the nightstand was done; he had only the drawer to fit properly. Recalling how rough and rugged his other pieces seemed to be, Tawny was a bit surprised to see the smooth planes of the nightstand, the sanded surfaces, and the care he'd taken to polish the wood smooth. Swallowing hard, she approached while his back was turned and he was focused on sanding a rough bit so the drawer would slide smoothly.

He must have seen her shadow fall across his workbench, for he paused and slowly turned his head. His curious look swiftly changed to one of utter shock when he recognized her. Breath catching, he turned fully around and leaned back against the workbench as if to steady himself.

He swallowed with difficulty, and gasped, "Tawniel."

"I've... I've come back," she whispered awkwardly. She could only meet his eyes for a moment before bowing her head in shame. She almost hoped he'd admonish her. Tell her of the sacrifice he'd made of his prospects, the humiliation _he_ felt, having such a worthless wife. But he said nothing for some time.

To avoid his gaze, she looked at the nightstand, and her breath caught. The front of the drawer was decorated with a crude carving of a flowering vine. Though her time in his house had been brief, she could not recall seeing a single adornment on anything he'd made.

Now she did look at him, only to see him looking anywhere but at her, as much at a loss for what to do or say as she was. He'd taken a rag from his belt and was nervously wiping his hands on it.

Taking a deep breath, he muttered, "Are you hungry?" When all she could do was blink stupidly, he stammered, "It's... gone mid-day. I could... I could cook something, if you're... hungry."

"Yes," she forced herself to say. "Yes. Please."

Nodding, he all but ran into the house. His swift strides certainly gave away his strong desire to escape this painfully awkward situation. Uncertain what to do next, Tawny struggled to regain some semblance of dignity and composure. Wiping her own hands nervously down her pantlegs, she took several deep breaths, then slowly approached the front door of his house. _You can do this_, she reminded herself. _Nervous as he is, he's unlikely to demand anything._ Yet she wasn't entirely convinced, and shuddered slightly as she pushed the door open.

He stood with his back to her, bent over a butcher's block near the hearth, peeling and slicing potatoes. Even in the half light cast by the hearthfire and sun through open doors and windows, she could see his hands trembling. Looking around, she noted how little had changed. Though the block was new, the rack was still where it was before, the barrels still stood in a corner out of the way, and the table with its lone chair...

Tawny blinked, startled. There at the table stood a second chair, noticeably smaller than the first. Brow furrowed, she slowly approached, staring at it. Unlike the chair he'd built for his own use, this one was well-sanded and appeared quite smooth. The seat looked to be just the right depth and at just the right height for her shorter legs. There was even a cushion made from homespun cloth.

Swiftly covering her mouth lest she sob openly, Tawny felt her eyes brimming with tears. Her vision blurred as she eased into the chair. She had to clear her throat to cover the whimpering sound that rose unbidden.

It was perfect. How he had taken her measure so completely in that brief time she'd fidgeted in his larger chair was beyond her comprehension. He said little, but he saw much.

She couldn't help turning about in the seat, admiring the craftsmanship. As she did so, she noticed a similar pattern of leafy vine carved on the backrest of the chair. It struck her hard and suddenly that he'd made every effort to give his wife pretty things, made by his own hands, as if she were worthy of it. Regardless that he knew she wasn't, and would never return to prove otherwise.

Feeling sick inside, she tucked her hands under her thighs and stared at the table for several moments. The silence in the house was only broken by the Orc chopping vegetables or adding ingredients to the stew he was preparing. Tawny periodically glanced at him, watching him cook and noting how terribly nervous he was. Oddly enough, his uncertainty and awkwardness eased her worries far more than she expected.

While he cooked, she caught him sometimes peeking at her out of the corner of his eye. When he noticed her gazing in his direction, he hastily looked back at the stewpot and affected intense interest in the swirling broth as he stirred incessantly.

Eventually, he could delay the inevitable no longer, and brought two bowls and spoons to the table. Setting one bowl and spoon down for Tawny, he settled himself on his own chair opposite hers and scooped up a spoonful of the steaming stew. She followed his lead, blowing on the hot broth and trying to think of something to say.

After the first delicous spoonful, the Bosmer forced herself to look at him. Could she endure such a face as his day in, day out? Could she wake up to it on the pillow next to hers? The thought of sharing his bed – this man she knew nothing about – was not something she wanted to dwell on just now. She feared the night, when that question would undoubtedly arise. Though she believed she'd prepared herself for the eventuality, she couldn't say she would go happily to his bed.

Yet something did not ring true in that, though she could not quite put her finger on what it was. As she sought an answer, she realized that he'd raised his head and met her distant gaze. Casting about for something to say, she told him, "The chair is... quite comfortable. Thank you."

A flattered smile twitched the corners of his mouth. "Good," he nodded. Seemingly encouraged by her words, he said quietly, "You are welcome to stay."

Tawny froze, unable to draw a breath for a moment. She'd hoped the sleeping arrangements wouldn't come up until later. Beginning to tremble, she tried to think of an excuse, a half-truth, a lie; anything to release her from _that_ duty a wife owed her husband.

Orekh seemed to note her distress and added, "I've built another bed. It's yours if you want it." Tawniel was so shocked, she could only stare open-mouthed at the Orsimer. Unsure what to do with her reaction, he began to babble.

"Also built... screens," he went on, unable to meet her gaze. "For privacy. Just... frames. I found a nice fabric at the market for them. Had flowers on. Thought it might be pretty. Something you'd like." He swallowed hard. "I'm not so good with a needle, so... maybe not the best, but... they'll do for now." Glancing once more at her face, now with her mouth closed and eyes blinking rapidly, he mumbled, "Had enough for a blanket."

All Tawny could think to say was, "Thank you, Orekh."

He smiled a little, perhaps surprised that she actually recalled his name. Swallowing with difficulty, he seemed to struggle with uncertainty for a moment. "Should I... make some dough and set it to rise? Bake bread in the morning?" A slight smile curved his lips and he chuckled nervously. "Never seem to have any on hand when it's needed."

"I would like that," Tawny said sincerly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "If it would not be too much trouble."

Orekh leaned back in his chair and relaxed. His smile became less strained. "No trouble," he said softly.

Tawny returned his smile. He had warm, kind eyes, she realized. Eyes she'd never expected to see in the face of an Orc.

THE END

...or perhaps the beginning...


End file.
